


The Adventure Of 'Emperor Dick' (1894)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [141]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Boats and Ships, Destiel - Freeform, Ireland, Johnlock - Freeform, Liverpool, M/M, Major Character Injury, Politics, Sabotage, Slavery, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11347563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A momentous year is almost done – and Watson nearly loses the man he loves again as the foul beast that is the slave trade, against which the Empire has been striving so successfully, surfaces in Home waters of all places.





	The Adventure Of 'Emperor Dick' (1894)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Umbreon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbreon/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Merridew, of abominable memory'.

I am sure that when they read it, my readers will be somewhat surprised at the inclusion of this particular case in this and the 1921 'Elementary' collections. Sherlock was brought in late to this case, and although he helped to prevent the flight of the criminal involved, that is not what is of such import. No, this is included because of a chain of events that led to an emotional exchange between myself and my friend, in which the relationship between Sherlock and myself took another step forward - having nearly been brought to a sudden and unexpected end.

We were, unfortunately, expecting another visit from the unpleasant Mr. Bacchus Holmes, one of the few dark clouds in what were then my clear blue skies of happiness. Sherlock, the bastard, had suggested using the paddle on me again, and I had reminded him of what had happened on the first occasion. My friend Sir Peter Greenwood had been hard put not to fall about with laughter when I told him that I feared I had ruptured something, and he had mistakenly asked how. Fortunately some basic checks showed that, contrary to what what was left of my mind was saying, everything was still in place.

I did however hear my now ex-friend laughing through the door as he left. And I was sure that I caught our landlady and Mr. Singer exchanging money just after. Bastards, the whole lot of them!

+~+~+

Mr. Bacchus Holmes' visit to Baker Street was tempered by the fact that he was accompanied by his brother Gaylord who was, I supposed, marginally the lesser of the two evils. As I have said before, he, like his older brother and the infinitely preferable Mr. Lucius Holmes, worked for Her Majesty's Government, but at least Gaylord did not make frequent calls on Sherlock's talents and good nature in the blithe expectation (almost always correct) that they would be instantly met. It turned out that Mr. Bacchus Holmes was indeed to make yet more demands on my friend, though not of the usual nature.

“Last year”, the lounge-lizard began, “I got Gaylord here a post on the good ship _“Mercian”_ because I wanted him to go and investigate a small matter that I had on hand in Rome. Naturally he demanded a free cruise back – and that was when he stumbled across a problem which is damnably delicate.”

I knew by 'delicate' our unwelcome guest meant 'politically explosive', though I was quietly pleased that it was not only Sherlock who got imposed upon in this way. I wondered idly whether a free trip was heading our way, too.

“The return trip was interrupted at Gibraltar because the base commander found out that he could cook, just as half his own staff went down with the winter flu, and a major Admiralty inspection due the following week”, the elder Holmes explained. “So shortstack here was commandeered for a while.”

“Shortstack here may soon be telling mummy and daddy about someone's interesting collection of literature, and the secret stash he keeps at their house”, Gaylord said in a sing-song voice. His older brother blushed, then glared at me as I very pointedly muttered 'interesting literature stash' as I took notes. Because I was petty like that.

Yes, and proud of it!

“A few days later a young man, severely dehydrated, was found collapsed at the base gates, and was brought into the hospital”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes went on, his face now very red. “He was diagnosed with a case of pseudo-leprosy, which was presumably why they threw him off his ship - and that ship, gentlemen, was a slave ship!”

To say that we were both astonished would be an understatement. Her Majesty's Government had quite rightly outlawed the evil slave trade at the start of the century, abolishing slavery itself a few decades later. Ever since then, the Royal Navy had been patrolling the world's oceans and gradually forcing the business ever back into the dark corners from which it had emerged, mostly the Mohammedan countries of Africa and the East. Even there, the British influence was attacking it; the recent exchange with Germany of the island of Heligoland (scene of our adventure with 'the King of Scandinavia') for Zanzibar and Wituland in East Africa had been primarily to attack the trade from the latter.

“Where did this poor man come from?” I asked. I was not prepared for the answer.

“Ireland!” the eldest Holmes said grimly.

A British slave!

+~+~+

Mr Bacchus Holmes placed a drawing on the desk. It showed a round-jawed Victorian businessman, balding but clearly very pleased with himself.

“Richard 'the Roman' Merridew”, he said heavily. “Known also as 'Emperor Dick'. Slave-trader as we head full-speed towards the twentieth century. It is downright abominable!”

“Why do you not just arrest him?” I asked curiously. 

“It is something to do with where he takes the slaves, is it not?” Sherlock asked, giving his brother the sort of look that said any snark about my lack of knowledge should be kept to himself if he wanted this meeting to continue. His brother swallowed, and nodded. I may or may not have smirked (I did).

“Mr. Merridew has dual citizenship”, he explained, glaring at me. “The island of Samarra lies on its own, a little way north of the Ionian Islands, which we foolishly gave back to those ungrateful Greeks back in 'Sixty-Four. The place sits slap bang between the mess that is Italy on one side and the bigger mess that is the Ottoman Empire on the other. When this European war finally breaks out – and break out it will, mark my words – then having a naval base there will be of great import, especially if we end up fighting the Ottomans. And/or the Italians; it's about fifty-fifty at the moment as to which way they will break.”

“But the Ottomans are our allies”, I objected, “and we have spent the past century trying to save them from the Russian Bear!”

“Constantinople can be used to make many words, but gratitude is not amongst them”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said primly. “The point is this. 'Emperor Dick' is making play with an old treaty between the island's king back in fifteen hundred and something, and that useless lump Henry the Eighth. Basically it allows the King of Samarra – who these days is a vassal of the Ottoman Empire - to grant one licence a year to merchants. The diplomatic immunity renders them untouchable, even if they went and killed someone.”

“But even if you stop this man, would not another licence be issued to someone else?” I asked.

“Back-up thinks to stop him in such a way that would deter anyone else from trying”, Gaylord said, smirking as his elder brother glared at the nickname. And then at me for mouthing it as I write it down. 

Yes, still petty. And still proud of it!

“So you cannot touch the man directly without risking a diplomatic incident near a major trade route of ours”, Sherlock said. “And with a country that we do not – for now, at least - wish to alienate. I see the problem. May I ask when he was granted his current licence?”

“They always run from the start of the year”, his brother answered, “so the rat will need to be back on Samarra by the end of this month. The licence only has any force if it is granted by the island's current ruler and in person; it cannot be sent by post or over the wire.”

“How in blazes are they getting citizens of the Empire from under our noses?” I growled. “It's barbaric!”

“Merridew's ship, the _“Imperator”_ , sails from Liverpool”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes explained, “and calls in at Queenstown before sailing through the Straits to home. Stopping him whilst he is licensed would cause an international incident, and with the situation abroad as it is just now, that is not something that Great Britain is prepared to do.”

Especially as it is just Irish slaves, I thought cynically but did not say. My thoughts must have shown in my face, however.

“If you have ever looked at a map of the Irish coast, _doctor_ ”, the lounge-lizard said a little acidly, “you will see that it is perforated with thousands of inlets and small bays. With the current demands on Her Majesty's fleet, we cannot spare a ship to shadow the _“Imperator”_ on the off-chance that she slips into one, and even if we could, we dare not risk stopping her. The Sublime Porte would be less than impressed.”

“When does the ship sail?” Sherlock asked.

“The tenth, a week today”, Bacchus answered. “That gets her to Oteria, the capital and only port of Samarra, on the twenty-sixth, with five days in hand; she is not that fast. Why?”

Sherlock grinned, and turned to me.

“Doctor”, he said, “it looks like we may be travelling this festive season!”

+~+~+

I was surprised when Sherlock asked me if I could be free to travel north come the tenth, the very day that the _“Imperator”_ sailed, but I guessed that he must have had his reasons. Those quickly became apparent when we arrived in the docks of the Lancashire port city to find the ship not only still there, but with a large gash running all the way down one side. 

“What happened?” I wondered.

“The mail packet _“City of Bath”_ collided with her as she left this morning”, Sherlock explained.

I looked at him in surprise. How could he know that?

“Bacchus paid the other ship's captain”, he grinned. “The damage looks to be less than I had hoped, unfortunately, but I have other plans for that.”

I did not get it, and we spent most of the afternoon questioning an assortment of dock labourers on the quayside, most of whom were surly and unco-operative. The few that would talk were, I noted, handsomely recompensed for their time and courtesy, but I did not see that Sherlock had learnt much, and said so after we had checked into a hotel for the night.

“I did not expect to learn anything much”, Sherlock said. “That was not the point of the exercise.”

“Then what was the point?” I asked, a trifle irritably. It had snowed for much of the day, and the weak fire in the tavern where we were drinking was doing little to make things better. And our public setting meant that I could not hug the human heater sat next to me. I was freezing!

“I wished Mr. Merridew to become aware of my interest in his dealings”, Sherlock said. “Once he does, he will then realize that the collision this morning was no accident, and that the British government is endeavouring to prevent his return to renew his licence before the end of the month. He has been more than a little foolish to trade this late in the season.”

“Then what?” I asked, rubbing my hands together. 

“What would you do in his position?” Sherlock countered.

“Get home as quickly as possible”, I said. “Take a train – hire a special if I could afford it – to London, get across the Channel and head down to Italy to make the crossing to Samarra. The British government could do little once he is in a foreign country, though they might get him at the sea-crossing to his homeland.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Mr. Merridew is smarter than that”, he said. “Trains crash, and he will know for certain that a government that can send a ship hurtling into his is quite able to cause such an accident, particularly to a special where there are no innocent civilians affected. A rail removed by some 'vandal', and a crash would be assured. No, he will take to the seas. There are three ships leaving Liverpool today or tomorrow that would serve him. The _“Redgauntlet”_ sails to Belfast and then across to Stavanger and the Baltic. That is a dangerous option however, as he would not reach Lübeck until early on the twenty-sixth, leaving him little more than five days to cross Europe from north to south. That is possible with our modern railways, but very risky, although the number of different routes might incline him to think it a risk worth taking. Or there is the _“Wizard of Avalon”_ , which calls in at Gibraltar en route to the Canary and Azore Islands. He would reach the Rock on the twenty-first, giving him a clear ten days, enough for a land trip most of the way home or a straight sea journey. Again a lot of options, and it would be difficult to cover all of them. And finally the _“Isinglass”_ which goes to Cherbourg, but calls all the way round various ports in Ireland first, so does not reach France until the twenty-seventh. Not much nearer to home than Lübeck, and with one less day in hand. It is my belief that he will choose the _“Wizard of Avalon”_.”

“So he will still make it home in time”, I said. Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“Regretfully for Mr. Merridew, all three captains are in Bacchus' pay”, he said. “Whichever route he takes, he will encounter further problems. I guarantee it!”

+~+~+

It had been snowing lightly most of that day and it had not been quite cold enough for it to settle, but that evening the temperature plummeted, and with the forecast for the days ahead, it seemed as if we would indeed be in for a white Christmas. Sherlock had booked us into the Midland Railway Hotel, which at least meant we were somewhat sheltered from the bitingly cold winds that blew in off the Irish Sea. Even better, we had adjoining rooms with a connecting door. Which I took full advantage of once the maid had gone, slipping through and into his bed. It always amazed me that whilst Sherlock's body was so much warmer than mine, his feet were always icicle-cold, and he insisted on rubbing them against mine. Honestly, the things I put up with for that man!

It also sometimes irked me the way he read my mind. I was dwelling lightly on the case when he managed to turn round in my grasp and face me, running his hand slowly over my chest.

“John”, he said quietly, “this slave-trading thing.....”

He stopped, looking oddly uncertain. I stared at him across the darkness of the bed, wonderingly.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Do you ever think of yourself like that?” he whispered, so quietly I could barely hear him. I looked at him in confusion.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Bound to me, like a slave”, he said, looking almost ashamed. “I know I take the lead most of the time, and you seem to enjoy it, but I do wonder.....”

I kissed him lightly on the nose.

“Sherlock”, I said firmly, “I want you to take me. Right now.”

I followed up my request by running my hand up and down his rapidly-hardening cock, and he groaned. 

“Johhhhhhn!”

“If you are not inside me in the next five minutes, I am going back to my bed.”

It was an idle threat; he knew as well as I did that my bed would be ice-cold, and that I would far rather spend the night with my own personal human heater, let alone with the man I loved more than life itself. But the look of ecstasy on his face as I got him hard was replaced by one of determination, and he moved gracefully to between by legs, easing me onto my back before starting to scissor me open. I sighed contentedly.

“l...I love you so much”, I said, stammering as he got a second finger in. “And I know that you would never hurt me, not like some Roman lord and his slave. One word, and you would stop, no matter how far gone you were. I will always love you, Sherlock.”

He swallowed hard, but carried on his ministrations, and soon had me open and ready. He was being more gentle than usual, and if possible, I loved him even more for that. This beautiful mind in in an even more beautiful body loved me, and I was the one who should have felt unworthy of that love. He was everything I could ever have wanted, and more.

He was finally inside me, and gently teasing my prostate. I groaned in mock pain, and glared at him for making me wait. He smiled teasingly at me in return, and suddenly changed his angle of attack, combining it with stroking my cock with one hand and tweaking first one nipple and then the second with the other. I could not last long under such a sustained attack, and I was coming in under a minute, letting out my relief in a guttural sigh, before clamping my walls down viciously on his cock and making him come as well. He quickly wiped us both down before collapsing down on top of me, totally spent, and I hugged him to me. My life. My soul. My Sherlock.

+~+~+

The following day, Sherlock was proven right when we learnt that the _“Wizard of Avalon”_ , due to leave on the fourteenth, had acquired an additional passenger. We were on the quayside that day to watch from a safe distance as the abominable Merridew – dressed, as Bacchus had said, rather ridiculously in a long coat bedecked with an imperial purple sash - boarded his new ship, and we waited some hours until it had sailed and was just a small dot on the horizon.

“So are we going to Gibraltar to put further pressure on him there?” I asked as we walked back to the station (I drew the line at another night in that freezing hotel, even with my own human heater). 

“We shall return to Baker Street and await developments”, Sherlock said. “I have a notion that this man is a cut above our average criminal. The ship has only one call to make before Gibraltar, at Queenstown, but I would be certain that the man is still on board after that. He is a slippery fish.”

Just how slippery emerged when we received a telegraph from the captain of the _“Wizard of Avalon”_ the next day, informing us that 'Mr. Richard Merridew' was no longer a passenger aboard his ship. Mr. Bacchus Holmes came round later that day, and told us that the man had caught a train across Ireland to Westport, where presumably he planned to intercept the “Isinglass” on her way round the island. The lounge-lizard was furious.

“My superiors think that I am an idiot for being duped like this!” he growled. “Honestly, Sher, I don't know why I brought you in on this case.”

From the sudden tension in the air, I knew instinctively that Sherlock was angry. With good reason; he had always done everything he could for his family, and even though they had helped him out during the turbulent events arising from Lawrence, the ingratitude clearly stung.

“We are clearly keeping you from Her Majesty's business, Bacchus”, he said coldly. “Good day.”

His brother seemed to belatedly realize that he had crossed a line. He looked up anxiously.

“Sherlock....”

“Good. Day!” Sherlock snapped, raising his newspaper to indicate that the meeting was at an end. 

His brother hesitated, but left. I waited until he had gone before speaking.

“Ungrateful lounge lizard”, I muttered.

Sherlock chuckled.

“What is it?” I asked. He lowered his newspaper and looked at me.

“I was thinking that too often these days, I underestimate you”, he said softly. “And that you may have been right about that man after all.” 

He stood up sharply.

“Would you be amenable to another train journey of some length?” he asked, sounding almost nervous that I might decline. As if that would happen!

“Abroad?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Not as such.”

I stared at him in confusion.

+~+~+

It was December the sixteenth, a day which would prove fateful (and nearly fatal) in Sherlock's and my relationship. A cab took us to Paddington, where Sherlock purchased two first-class tickets for New Milford in Pembrokeshire. As per his instructions, I had packed a small bag and my revolver. The day was bitterly cold again, but the snow had not come yet. 

Our train rumbled across England, then through the Severn Tunnel into Monmouthshire before finally entering the Principality of Wales. Sherlock kept checking his watch, and I asked why.

“I am thinking that Mr. Merridew is going to arrive off the ferry from Cork and Waterford”, he said. 

“But he has gone to Westport, on the west coast”, I objected. Sherlock shook his head.

“You forget that his ships call regularly at Queenstown”, he said, “and such a man would doubtless have agents there. It is my belief that one such disguised himself as his master - that purple sash was most likely designed to mislead - and the two swapped coats at Cork, the bedecked former then ensuring that he was followed northwards. Fortunately he would have just missed the connection yesterday, and today's ferry between that port and New Milford gets in less than half an hour after this train, so we cannot afford to be late.”

The Great Western Railway lived up to its name however, and our express reached the Pembrokeshire port station exactly on time. 

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “He still has days to run on that damn licence of his. We cannot arrest him.”

“I wish to make sure that he boards the return express”, Sherlock said. “You will have to stay and monitor the platform, and once the train has left, go and send a telegram to Bacchus as to what has happened. If he alights between here and London, I shall follow him and again let my brother know.”

I looked at him anxiously.

“Be careful”, I said. 

Alas, he was not.

+~+~+

The express was the penultimate train of the day, and since the local afterwards would only get me as far as Carmarthen before trains ceased for the night, I checked myself into a small local hotel before returning to the station in time for the ferry's docking. I was more than a little alarmed when the rotund Mr. Merridew alighted flanked by two burly henchmen, and I pressed Sherlock to let me stay with him on the train, but he insisted we keep to our original schedule. I spent an uncomfortable night tossing and turning, worried lest my friend do something brave and/or stupid.

There were no messages waiting for me the following morning, and I did not know whether that was good or bad. I had breakfast as early as I could, and the trains seemed inordinately slow as I made my way back to the capital. I reached London just after noon, and returned to Baker Street to find it almost empty. 

Almost. There was a Holmes in residence, but it was definitely the wrong one. Little wonder that Mrs. Harvelle had looked so annoyed when I had seen her from the stairs. Mr. Bacchus Holmes looked decidedly shifty, and my heart plummeted.

“Where is he?” I asked abruptly.

He looked even shiftier, and I remembered that my gun was still in my bag. Loaded. Waste not, want not.

“We have good news on the Merridew front”, he said cheerfully. “He took a train from Charing Cross this morning, but it was derailed near Dartford. Apparently the driver ignored the red flags where they were replacing worn-out rails.” (I would later learn that Sherlock had been right about our target not wanting to risk a special train, but that his brother had got round that by having his agent go though the train before the last station and tell all the passengers that they would have to change there).

“Is the rat dead?” I asked, momentarily distracted.

“Injured, but he will survive”, my unwelcome guest smiled. “Though he will not be out of his hospital bed before New Year. I guarantee that.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Years of dealing with less than forthcoming patients had left me with a sense of when I was being lied to or misled.

“Where. Is. Sherlock?” I demanded, glaring at him.

I had never doubted that, in any fight, Mr. Bacchus Holmes would easily worse me. But right now I was getting increasingly angry at his lack of forthrightness. 

“Hospital”, Bacchus muttered.

“What?” I barked. “How?”

“One of Merridew's henchmen spotted him at Bristol when he got off the train”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said, raising his hands as if in defence. They attacked him on the platform, just as the train was leaving. If it hadn't been for that stupid coat he always wears....”

I was now positively furious.

“This is all your fault!” I yelled. “That man does everything for you, and you let this happen!”

“I cannot babysit him”, my guest said defensively. “He is my brother, not my wife!”

“Which hospital?” I almost snarled. 

“St. Philip's”, he said. “He is fine; just a little bruised. He will be back today, and he will just need rest for....”

His laconic attitude was the last straw. I snarled and leaped across the room and grabbed him by his lapels, thrusting him back against the hearth. He looked startled, but did not fight back.

“I nearly lost him because of you!” I snarled. “Understand this, Bacchus Holmes. If anything ever happens to him because of you, I will hunt you down and kill you! Now get out!”

He looked genuinely shocked at my anger, and twisted himself out of my grip before walking swiftly to the door. He hesitated as if about to say something, but I gave him such a look that he thought better of it, and left. Once he had gone, I sank into Sherlock's chair and pulled his favourite blanket – one that the idiot had knitted himself – around me, as I shook in a mixture of anger and relief.

And then the tears came.

+~+~+

I telegraphed the hospital asking if I could visit, but they told me that they planned to discharge him before visiting hours started that evening (in a way that comforted me, because it implied he was being as dreadful a patient as I knew he could be). Sure enough, he arrived home in an ambulance not long after, and two men carried him upstairs despite his protestations. I only knew of his arrival when Mrs. Harvelle opened the door for them, and they carried him inside. I gestured to his fireside chair, and they gently placed him in it. I tipped them and they left us alone. 

The silence was positively painful.

“You are angry with me.”

I gripped my pencil so hard, it was surprising that it did not snap. 

“They recognized you because of that bloody coat”, I snapped. I regretted it the moment I spoke; he was in no fit state to cope with a moody room-mate just now. He nodded. 

“One of the men saw me at Cardiff, where we all got out”, he admitted. “When he saw me again at Bristol, his master must have told them to make sure that I went no further.”

“Your life nearly went no further!” I growled. “Damnation, Sherlock! What were you thinking?”

I looked up as I spoke, and winced at the pained look on his face. I was picking on an injured, defenceless human being, and should have been ashamed of myself. I got up and walked over to him, sitting in the opposite chair which I pulled forward so I could take his hands.

“I just cannot afford to lose you again”, I said bitterly. “Not after just getting you back. The last three years were sheer purgatory!”

“Not just for you”, he muttered.

I looked up, surprised. He sighed unhappily.

“Have you any idea how hard it was to watch you suffer?” he asked. “I wanted so much to let you know that I was alive, but I knew that doing so could endanger the man that I......”

He stopped, blushing. Like me, he was sometimes fine with expressing what he felt, but at times of great stress had trouble with those things that rhyme with dealings and start with the sixth letter of the alphabet.

“What?” I pressed. He made to pull his hands out of my grip, but I refused to let go.

“The man I admire above all others”, he said quietly. “The man I had to let think I was dead for three years, even when I wanted to be back here with you every moment.” He looked up, his blue eyes bright in the firelight. “The man I love, and could not live without. No matter what demands, no matter who makes them of me – never again!”

I swallowed. 

“No more going your own way”, I said, my voice shaking slightly. “You need someone to keep an eye on you at all times.”

“No, I do not”, he said with a small smile. “I have you.”

+~+~+

A week later, it was Christmas. I got Sherlock a hand-knitted and frankly terrible jumper which I knew that he would love. He got me two presents, and I blushed when I saw that the first was a set of handcuffs. Then I opened the second, and words failed me.

It was a pair of silver rings, one with a small emerald in it, and one with a sparkling sapphire. Taking the emerald one and examining it, I saw that it had the letters 'D' and 'C' entwined inside it. I swallowed hard.

“Society may not yet be ready to recognize it”, Sherlock said softly, “but I wanted to make it official. I pledged my soul to you in Verona, and now I pledge my body. I am yours, for now and all time, John. 

I swallowed, then gently placed the ring on my finger, alongside the unofficial 'engagement' ring that he had given me back in Verona. It fitted perfectly.

“As I am yours”, I said softly. “Now and for all time.”

+~+~+

Later that night, I got to try out his other present, too.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Despite his efforts, Richard Merridew was not discharged from hospital until the second day of January the following year, whence he was immediately arrested. The _“Imperator”_ had slipped out of Liverpool under the cover of darkness on the fifteenth of December, but the repairs effected by the local shipyard failed for some strange reason, and she had to return to port. Bare seconds after midnight on New Year's Day, she was impounded. There was no more slave-trading in British waters.

+~+~+

Next, a man grows suspicious that his elderly neighbours are being preyed upon.


End file.
